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Leaving on a Jet Plane Ain’t What It Used to Be

I fly…a lot. I like to joke that if you’ve seen George Clooney in “Up in the Air” – well my life’s a lot like that, but without the adultery. Sure, there are many air travelers who put my mileage to shame – for instance, I don’t typically multi-hop cities in the same week. But I’m “up in the air” more than most folks, and that gives me the delusion that others might actually benefit from what I have to say about it.

First, I know it’s unfair…and I understand why everyone is trying to drag their luggage onboard these days to avoid bag fees. But folks, if your seat is in row 23, you ain’t gettin’ that bag in an overhead. In fact, no one in the back third of the plane has a prayer of getting space these days. So give it up and gate check it. You’re holding up the departure with your futile attempt to cram a rollerboard into an already overflowing overhead.

When was the last time you looked at a flight attendant and thought, “Gee. what a glamorous job”? Must have been the 60s or 70s, right? I’m often surprised they don’t all yell “f*** you,” grab a beer and jump down the slide.

What is it about going to the airport that causes people to dress like they’re in Cirque du Soleil? And not the family friendly version either. Never have I seen such garish costumes as I’ve seen in airports…in seemingly conservative cities like Charlotte, NC. It’s air travel people, not trick-or-treat!

Another pet peeve of the frequently flying: I’m sorry the airline screwed up and didn’t assign your seats together. But don’t ask me to move 18 rows further back so your boyfriend can come up and sit with you. Ask the person next to him if they would like to move 18 rows up and sit with me. Trust me, it’s cozier and more romantic in the back of the plane.

And finally, a confession: I take perverse pleasure in watching uptight, button-downed businessmen getting all huffy with the gate agent when they find they didn’t get a free upgrade to first class…and then I love the indignantly shocked looks on their faces as first class is called and I stroll past them into the jetway in my scruffy jeans and B-52s t-shirt.